A poem a day is the poet way!

Farm to table.

The cook will never tell whether it is a brick
or a stone that weights the parsnip as it roasts,
nor whether the parsnip is really weighted
by one of these heavy things, or merely proximal.

The menu of the speakeasy, likewise, lists
liquors that may be fictional—Loony Still,
which may be a whiskey, a bourbon, or a gin,
the barkeep will never tell, nor if the label

is more standard than artisanal. But we lean
into the candlelight, exegetes of craft and story,
and prognosticate how each ingredient
will work within the composition’s constraint:

the confit, verjus, bacon jam, egg white, pickle brine:
we hold the candle closer: can that be right, a shotof pickle brine? The actual cucumbers—a French varietal
—were grown on the roof, just over our heads.